


L’Enfer, C'est Les Autres

by Beguile



Series: The Language of Flowers [1]
Category: Hannibal (TV), Hannibal Lecter Series - All Media Types
Genre: Flowers, Fluff and Crack, Phone Calls & Telephones, Will Tries to Do Something Normal
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-06-14
Updated: 2013-06-14
Packaged: 2017-12-14 22:30:55
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,369
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/842108
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Beguile/pseuds/Beguile
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Will orders flowers for Alana.  Sartre was right: hell is other people.  Mild crack!fic.  Post-Fromage.</p>
            </blockquote>





	L’Enfer, C'est Les Autres

**Author's Note:**

> Disclaimer: The characters and concepts in this story are the property of Thomas Harris, Bryan Fuller, and their related affiliates. This is an amateur writing effort meant for entertainment purposes only. 
> 
> I’ve been rewatching Dead Like Me and Wonderfalls since starting Hannibal, and Fuller’s ability to write overeducated, disaffected characters never ceases to amaze me. I thought I’d try my hand here. Enjoy!
> 
> The title is taken from Sartre’s No Exit.

          “Full Bloom Floral.  Charlotte speaking, how may I help you?”

          After being hung up on by every other florist in the area, Will mentally reminds himself to _be normal_ before speaking.  “Do you have anything green?”

          “No, nothing.  We sheer the leaves and stems off all of our flowers to establish ourselves as pioneers in floral arrangements.”

          Will actually can’t tell if she’s being sarcastic or not.  “You’re not serious.”

          “No, I’m not.  We have plenty of green in this store: green plants, green cards, green foam...what sort of green are you looking for?”

          “I want something alive with no flowers.  Or small flowers.  But nothing too fancy or romantic.”

          “I’ve got some great pond moss or lily pads in the back?”

          Again, the jury’s out on whether or not she’s being sarcastic.  Will decides not to ask this time and just says flatly, “Nothing aquatic.”

          “So, what, then?  Like a fern?  Are you looking for a fern?”

          Will’s mind races with some horrible sale-gone-wrong involving ferns by the tone in her voice.  Charlotte’s whole family was killed in some fern-related incident by the sounds of it. 

          He replies timidly, “Nothing with spores...?”

          “Who is this for?”  
  
          “What?”  She’s so accusatory. Will can’t help getting defensive.

          “This lackluster, potted, non-aquatic, green plant – who’s it for?”  
  
          “A friend.”

          “Why?”

          “Because she’s insisted we can’t date.  Yet.”

          “No: why are you buying her a plant?”  
  
          “To say thank you.”

          “For?”

          “That’s really none of your business.”

          “Actually, it’s totally my business.  As your designated floriographer, it’s my job to assist you in selecting flowers that best translate the message you’re attempting to communicate to the intended recipient of your bouquet.”

          How she didn’t sound even remotely insincere is beyond Will.  “You must be joking.”

          “I thought my employers were too, but then they made me sit through eight hours of PowerPoint presentations on the history of floriography.  You know if this were nineteenth century London, I’d be like really important?”

          “Perish the thought...”   

          “You’re sarcastic now...and probably still will be long after this call because the floriography revolution is never going to happen,” for which Charlotte is genuinely disappointed.  She’s either an overeducated, underpaid Arts Major freshly disillusioned about the merits of a degree in Philosophy or the depressed daughter of entrepreneurial florists getting roped into the family business whether she likes it or not.  “So _whatever_ : what do you want your bouquet to say?”  
  
          “Well, I want to say thank you.”

          Charlotte’s voice immediately animates on the other line.  “Then you don’t want something green.  You want hydrangeas or capanula or, oh!  Canterbury Bells!  I could totally order you in some Canterbury Bells!”

          “No!  No ordering anything!”  Will resists the urge to hang up right then and there, but he can hear Charlotte settling on the other line.  Even her silence is pouting.  “Just...ugh...what do you have in a pot that means anything along the lines of thank you?”  
  
           “Hydrangeas,” she’s bored again.  “We have some hydrangeas.”

          Will looks up a picture online to make sure they are respectable, friendly blossoms.  They seem to straddle state lines.  “Okay.  Fine.  I’d like to send a pot of hydrangeas to Dr. Alana Bloom.”

          “Would you like a card?”

          He doesn’t have a chance to hide the bite in his own voice when he replies, “A designated floriographer has just picked out the plant.  Why would I need a card?”

          Charlotte bites right back, “Because she needs to know who they’re from?”  The ‘duh’ is, fortunately or unfortunately, implied.  “She’s not a telepath.  I don’t think.  Is she a telepath?”

          Will doesn’t even.  “Fine.  Yes.  Attach a card.”  
  
          “I have three for expressing thanks: ‘Many Thanks’, ‘Thanks a Bunch’, and ‘With Heartfelt Gratitude’.”

          “Don’t you just have blanks?”

          She deflates again.  “I have some index cards.”

          “Good.  I’ll take one of those.”

          “As your floriographer, I strongly advise against the use of an index card.”

          “Noted.”

          “Ugh...” she shuffles through office supplies, grumbling the whole time.  “Alright: what would you like your _index_ card to say?”

          “To Alana.”

          “Not _Dr. Alana Bloom_?”   
  
          Charlotte pronounces it like the title of a Harlequin romance novel. Sartre was right: Hell is other people.  “No, just ‘Alana’.”

          “O-kay.”

          “Um, thank you...for stopping by...the other night.  It was appreciated.  Very much.  Uh...these flowers are not an imposition or a flirtation in any way.”

          He hears the pen being thrown down in disgust.  “Oh, seriously?”  
  
          “Just...” he mentally counts to ten, “write it.”

          “Fine,” Charlotte goes back to scribbling, “geez...”  
  
          “I just wanted to express my gratitude.  Please have a good day.  From Will.  Actually, from _your friend_ , Will.”

          “You know, I’ve got a stack of feel-good-sweet-nothings, noble platitudes, and proverbs from all over the world in front of me.”  
  
          “I don’t want a feel-good-sweet-nothing, noble platitude, or proverb.”

          “Can I make a suggestion?”

          “Please, don’t.”  
  
          She does anyways.  “Can we take out the line about ‘not an imposition or a flirtation in any way’?  I mean, I get that some people are just not interested in a relationship, but that doesn’t mean you have to be such a downer about it.”

          He’s going to regret this.  “How would you say it then?  And don’t say-”

          But she’s already saying: “As your designated floriographer-”  Will slams his hand against his face.  “-I think you should send her some fresh cut daffodils to express unrequited love.  Like no offence to Tan Jun Yong or anything-”

          He’s going to regret this too.  “Who?”

          “Celebrated Asian florist.  He said that the contemporary meaning of pink hydrangeas is, ‘You’re the beat of my heart,’ but I think he’s just trying too hard.”

          “Are you reading the Wikipedia page for ‘hydrangeas’?”  
  
          “Are _you_ reading the Wikipedia page for ‘hydrangeas’?”

          Silence.  Will minimizes his browser.  “I thought you said you were a trained floriographer?”

          “Actually, I said I sat through eight hours of Powerpoint presentations on the history of floriography.  I think I absorbed about two hours of information before my brain turned to tapioca.  Looks like someone’s got a naked performance bias.”

          “What is...no.  Never mind.  Just put the card with the flowers.”

          “Daffodils or hydrangeas?”

          “The daffodils.  No, wait, the hydrangeas!  The ones that just mean thank you.”

          “And where am I sending these flowers-of-strictly-friendship and attached index card to, Will?”

          He rattles off Alana’s home address as quickly as he can.  “You can bill me for the flowers.”

          “Your name?”

          “William Graham.”

          If she Googles his name, Charlotte doesn’t say anything.  And she definitely would.  “Type of card, card number, expiry date, and security code?”

          Will rattles those off too.  Charlotte’s quiet for a long while after that.  It’s alarming.  “Is that it?” he has to ask if for no other reason than to know that she hasn’t died or anything.  “That’s all?”

          “Are you sure you don’t want the daffodils?”

          He hangs up. 

* * *

 

          Alana stops by his classroom the next day.  Will’s palms sweat so badly he has to shove them into his pockets.  “I just wanted to say thank you,” she says. 

          “So did I,” he nods, mentally adding a rapid disclaimer about just being friends rather than saying it aloud so as not to sound too attached to that relationship status. 

          “Well, you didn’t need to go to all that trouble.”

          “No trouble.”

          She smiles skeptically.  “That arrangement was very well put together, Will."

          _Oh, no..._ Will’s brow furrows.  “I didn’t...I wouldn’t have...I mean, I would under different...what arrangement?”

          “The very ornate bouquet of flowers delivered to me this morning?”  Alana laughs lightly, bemused by the expression of equal parts terror and embarrassment that comes over Will’s face.  “Maybe this will refresh your memory?”

          She hands him a folded card sealed with a sticker for Full Bloom Floral, one labeled, “Please deliver to Will Graham, esq.”  Will would just as soon tear it up as read it, but he can’t do that in front of Alana.  He tears open the sticker to find a pink ‘You Are Special’ card beaming up at him, and in swirly, curly purple handwriting beneath that: “Will - you’ll thank me someday.  From Your Designated Floriographer, Charlotte!” 

          Will crumples up the card. 

 

          Happy reading!


End file.
